


Pale is the Dream in the Cold Light of Day

by RiatheMai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Dean, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Holy Crap! The Boys Talk, M/M, Misunderstandings, MorningAfterFreakOut, POV Sam Winchester, Pining, SPN/J2 Xmas Exchange, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiatheMai/pseuds/RiatheMai
Summary: An SPN/J2 Xmas Exchange fic for CitrusjavaBased on the Prompt: "So there was pining, lots of pining. Then some drunk Dean and/or Sam. And a very UST heavy evening. Then there was kissing, maybe sex. I’d absolutely love to read that part too, if you felt generous and inspired to write it. But what I am asking for is –Tell me about next day freak-out, in a lived sort of way, a Dean and Sam sort of way."





	Pale is the Dream in the Cold Light of Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrusjava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusjava/gifts).



> AN: I don't know if this is what you were looking for, but here goes. I hope you like it. Happy Holidays!!  
> Set vaguely in Season 2.
> 
> AN2: A special thank you so much to my awesome betas Kailene and LoveThemWinchesters. Love ya!!

He'd had dreams like this, when he was younger, before anger and unhappiness had become easier emotions to feel and to express than what he'd been holding deep inside.

So many evenings had been spent sprawled out across the top of a too-small bed watching TV in whatever crap motel their dad had left them in, Dean's larger body taking up most of the room so Sam had had no choice but to press in tight against him so he didn't end up on the floor. So many times Sam had fallen asleep with Dean's scent all around him and Dean's heartbeat in his ear.

When it was just the two of them, Dean's harder edges melted away. He had always been tactile, quick to throw an arm around Sam's shoulders or to ruffle Sam's hair, but in those quiet moments, his touches became softer, tracing his fingertips up and down Sam's arms or through Sam's hair. He didn't seem to care if Sam's breath was brushing his collarbone, or if Sam played with the hem of his t-shirt. He seemed to like the feel of Sam's body against his, tucked in as safe and secure as Dean could make him. 

It was in those moments Sam had felt the safest. It was in those moments Sam had felt the most protected, the most loved.

It really was no wonder that so many of Sam's dreams—his _fantasies_ , because that was what they'd been—had started out that way: he and Dean lying in each other's space, their arms and legs twisted around each other like vines, while their innocent touches became something… less innocent.

Something… _more._

Sometimes, it would be subtle. Sam would take a deep breath, and Dean's hand, resting still and heavy on Sam's waist, would shift. His room-cool fingers would graze that sensitive dip where his hipbones jutted out and begin to move. The skin there was soft; Sam knew because he'd touched that place so many times, trying to recreate the imagined sensation of Dean's work-rough fingers on his body. It was never the same.

Dean's fingers would find that swath of soft, sensitive skin and he'd trace slow, ever-widening circles that would have Sam sucking in his gut, arching his back, and rolling his hips to help Dean reach closer…closer…closer.

Sometimes, it was more deliberate. He would _wake_ to the press of Dean's lips on his throat, hot tongue laving at the racing pulse at the base of his jaw. Dean's hands would be insistent, sliding down Sam's back and drawing him hard against Dean's sleep-warm body.

Every time, he'd wake, hard and aching, to an empty bed and the harsh realization that Dean hadn't returned early from his hunt and crawled into Sam's lonely bed. It had all been a vivid and cruel fantasy.

Those dreams had chased him all the way to Stanford, had grown more and more intense in those first few months he'd been alone, both hating himself and missing Dean with every fiber of his being. Dean would steal into his room in the middle of the night, moving so silently across the worn carpet that Sam wouldn't know he was there until he was standing beside Sam's bed.

He wouldn't say anything, but everything Sam had ever wanted to hear would be in his eyes. Forgiveness. Desire. Love. They'd reach for each other at the same time, Sam's body fitting so perfectly into the contours of Dean's it didn't make any sense that they shouldn't be together, that this should be wrong. Why had he run from this? Why hadn't he trusted that Dean would understand?

But those dreams had ended the same as all the others. With Sam alone in his bed.

He'd had dreams like this, but not for several years. He'd thought he'd finally outgrown them, that they'd just been the product of all those years spent wrapped up in each other's presence, of hormones and hero worship and wanting…no, _needing_ to be the most important thing in Dean's life.

More important than Dad.

More important than hunting.

More important than the girls that kept Dean out late at night and had him coming back smelling like cherry lip-gloss and strawberry bubblegum.

He'd thought he could be back in Dean's space and have Dean in his with so little room between them, and he wouldn't _want_ him like _that._

He'd been so wrong. He would _always_ want Dean like _that._ And, it would only be like _this_ —in his dreams—that he'd get to have him.

So, he didn't move when he heard the door to their motel room open, and Dean's softly spoken, "Sammy?" And he didn't protest when the bed dipped behind him; he wasn't shocked at all when Dean crawled under the covers and draped his winter-chilled body along Sam's sleep-warm back.

Sam's best dreams always started this way.

"Th' hell? Sammy?"

They usually didn't include that, though. Sam's eyes popped open, his heart kicking in his chest.

"Yeah, Dee?"

"Wha'diya doin' in m'bed?"

"I—I'm not. You're in mine."

Dean seemed to think about that for a moment, and Sam could only hold his breath and wait. He couldn't even roll over. Dean was pressed up against his back with one arm tossed over Sam's side, effectively holding him in place. He was drunk; Sam didn't have to smell the scent of it on his skin to know that. He wouldn't still be in Sam's bed if he were sober. Not unless Sam was still dreaming, and Sam was pretty sure he wasn't.

The ache of that disappointment was worse than the one he used to wake up with. It settled like a tight fist in the center of his chest.

"Dean?"

"Damn, you're warm," Dean said, and his arm tightened around Sam's waist, pulling their bodies closer together. His hand slipped under Sam's t-shirt, calloused fingers coarse along Sam's stomach, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath. His fingers were cold, but that had nothing to do with it.

"Dean, you're drunk," Sam felt compelled to inform him. He was starting to feel a little drunk himself, lightheaded and dizzy as if the air was suddenly too thin, or all the blood was rushing out of his head.

Dean's hand slid up Sam's ribs and over his chest, his wide palm coming to rest over Sam's pounding heart. "And you feel good," Dean answered as if Sam hadn't said a word. He nuzzled his face into Sam's hair, whiskey-sweet breath blowing cool against the heated flesh of Sam's neck. " _So_ good." His lips grazed his skin and Sam gasped. "God, ya sound good, too."

Dean's lips touched Sam's neck again. That first touch had been accidental—Sam was sure of it—but this was more deliberate. And it was followed by another, and then another. A soft press of his mouth to Sam's nape. Another right beside it. Another beside that, dotting a teasing path toward the sensitive spot at the hinge of his jaw, teasing because they weren't quite kisses, though Sam wanted them to be.

He caught himself turning his head and lifting his chin, trying to direct the path and control the destination. He was the one being directed, though. He was the one falling into the rhythm of each not-kiss, the way his heartbeat used to synchronize to Dean's when they were younger, huddled together under a blanket in the backseat of the Impala, Sam's head against Dean's chest and Dean's arms locked around his back. Each press of Dean's lips set the tempo of his breath, and each inhale drew sharper and sooner than the one before as the frequency increased, Dean's tongue starting to flick out at intermittent times.

He could feel Dean's body moving behind him, slow, subtle undulations of his hips that just barely brushed Sam's ass. The slightest backward motion in opposition would have brought them into contact, would have told Sam if he was just imagining that building firmness in Dean's groin. For one fleeting moment, Sam thought about doing it, just pushing back against him and ramping things up. This was every dream and fantasy he'd ever had and Dean was playing his part as if he'd read the script.

He _wanted_ this.

No, he wanted _Dean._

And he wanted Dean to want _him_ , but at that very moment, Sam wasn't sure Dean even knew he was there. He couldn't possibly. Dean would never touch him like this.

Dean's hand started to slide downward and Sam grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Dean, wait."

Dean's body stilled, his arm completely lax in Sam's grip, but he didn't pull away. "What's wrong, baby?"

Sam couldn't stop the small sound that escaped him. The endearment was so unexpected, and only proved to him further that he needed to stop this, now.

Before he couldn't.

"You're drunk, Dean," he said.

"We've established that," Dean returned, though the words didn't sound all that slurred.

"And, you don't know what you're doing."

"I'm never _that_ drunk."

Sam felt the mattress dip, and then Dean placed a soft, _real_ kiss on his shoulder. He had to press his face into the pillow to muffle the sound that threatened in his throat. Tears prickled in his eyes and he wiped those into the pillow, too. It felt like forever before he could compose himself to speak. "Then, you don't know… _who_ you're doing it with."

Dean gently pulled the arm in Sam's grip. Sam didn't even think to release him, just let Dean roll him onto his back. Dean pushed up onto his elbow, so he could look down on him.

Much of Dean's face was lost in the dark of the room, but there was just enough light eking out from beneath the bathroom door—Sam had deliberately left the light on for Dean on the off-chance he came back to the room before morning—for Sam to see his eyes. The look in them as they swept across Sam's face made Sam's breath catch in his throat. It was that open.

"Yes, I do, Sammy," Dean whispered. He leaned forward.

By the time Sam figured out what Dean was going to do, Dean's lips were almost upon his. " _Cristo_!" he gasped, practically speaking the word right into Dean's mouth.

Of course, nothing happened. Dean stopped, his mouth hovering above Sam's, but his eyes didn't flash to black and his face didn't twitch or shake. He simply smirked, one corner of those full lips lifting in humor. It drew Sam's gaze like a magnet.

"'M not possessed either."

It would have been so simple for Sam to lift his head and kiss him. Except, Sam didn't want to kiss Dean.

He wanted Dean to…

"An' I _really_ wanna kiss you," Dean said.

None of this made any sense, and Sam opened his mouth to say so. At least, that had been his intent. What came out, though, wasn't anything of the sort. It wasn't even words, just a sort of helpless sound that choked off at his vocal cords.

Dean took it as consent, and Sam couldn't fault him for it. It had sounded like a yes to Sam, too. This time, when Dean leaned in, Sam didn't stop him. He even might have surged up to meet him, lips slightly parted and already wet from a quick swipe of his tongue.

He'd imagined what Dean's lips would feel like against his own so many times, all those hopeless, desperate fantasies and not one of them came close. This wasn't a soft, gentle kiss. This was firm pressure and a questing tongue, wet and hot. Sam opened for it easily, greedy for it, and Dean didn't disappoint. He ate at Sam's mouth, practically stealing the breath from Sam's lungs until white spots started floating behind his eyelids. Still, Sam didn't want him to stop, not even long enough for him to inhale.

It was Dean who tore away first, drawing back and tugging at Sam's baggy t-shirt impatiently. "Off!" It wasn't quite a growl, but it was damn close. He pushed the shirt up and Sam lifted his shoulders off the bed enough for Dean to pull it over his head.

"Look at you," Dean uttered. Sam had no time to think about the tone of his voice before Dean was kissing him again.

It was dirty and messy and hungry, and Sam _loved_ it. He squirmed and twisted to free his arms from his shirt, clumsy with so much of his attention focused on the slide of Dean's lips against his, the feel and taste of Dean's tongue tangling with his own. It didn't help that Dean's hands were getting into the action, too, sliding across his chest, down his side, over his stomach, up his sternum.

There was no pattern to the motion, nothing that Sam could anticipate. He could only react, arching his back as callused fingertips grazed his nipples or raising his hips as they traced the waistband of his sweatpants from hipbone to hipbone.

He felt Dean's other hand at his hair, blunt nails raking his scalp, strong fingers pulling at the strands. For someone who liked to give Sam all kinds of grief about the length of his hair, Dean certainly seemed to like the feel of it. Sam liked the feel of Dean's fingers, and those sharp little bites of pain as Dean gave a hank an extra hard tug here and there. He pushed his head back against Dean's fingers with a little groan.

"I knew it," Dean chuckled against Sam's lips, sounding quite pleased with the discovery. He grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and slowly pulled.

Sam resisted at first, letting the sting build until he had no choice but to tip his head back. Dean held him there while he mouthed at Sam's jaw, soft nipping bites along the sharp ridge of bone that he soothed with a hot swipe of his tongue.

Sam finally freed his hands from his shirt, tossing it aside, then reached for Dean's. He wanted it off. He wanted to be able to touch him without even that thin barrier between them. He'd had his hands on Dean's body thousands of times, and Dean's on his, but it had always been out of necessity: stitching wounds, setting bones, soothing muscles. He wanted to touch him out of desire, to stroke and pet him until he found all those places that made him react.

But Dean had other ideas. He pushed up onto his elbow and grabbed Sam's hand, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing the heel of his palm.

"What—?" Sam started, but the question died in his throat.

There was a gleam in Dean's eyes; Sam had seen it before, though it was usually directed at some pretty waitress or bartender. Strange that it didn't seem quite so ridiculous now that it was directed at him. It was… pretty damn hot, actually, as in full of heat and intensity.

His lips were swollen and red from kissing. He kept licking at them, drawing the lower one between his teeth and biting it. Sam couldn't stop staring at them. He was breathing as if he'd just run a lap around the building, and the hungry look in Dean's eyes had his heart pounding in his chest.

Then Dean smirked. He took Sam's hand and slowly brought it down to Sam's chest, flattening the palm over the swell of Sam's pectoral muscle and covering it with his own. He laced his fingers with Sam's and started to knead the muscle with his fingertips, guiding Sam's fingers to follow his lead, as he leaned down to kiss him slow and sweet.

For a second, Sam's attention fractured. There was the soft, wet glide of Dean's lips on his, and the firmer touch of Dean's—no, _their_ —fingers pressing into his flesh. There was a sudden sharp sting in his chest, and it didn't immediately register that it was his own fingers that were squeezing his nipple, twisting and tugging on the tender nub under Dean's gentle coaxing. He did it again, harder, his breath hitching in his throat, and he felt Dean smile against his lips.

"Like that, huh?" Dean said into Sam's mouth.

Before Sam could even think of an answer, Dean slowly slid Sam's hand down his body. Sam's breath quickened. Did Dean mean…? Dean's fingers slipped under the waistband of Sam's sweatpants, guiding Sam's hand through the thatch of coarse hair at his groin. Lower, until Sam's hand was cupping his own cock.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. "Dean, I—"

He wasn't sure what he was protesting, except that he wanted Dean's hand on him. He'd had enough of his own hand as a substitute. He tried to pull his hand out of the way, to switch their positions, but Dean covered Sam's hand with his, once again threading his fingers through Sam's.

"C'mon, Sammy," he whispered, wrapping Sam's fingers around the root of his own hard cock and gently tightening his grip, "show me what else you like."

It was the Sammy that did it. Sam liked to bitch about it— _It's Sam!—_ but it was a feint, a misdirection so Dean wouldn't see just how much that one word coming out of Dean's mouth ruined that word for everyone else. No one got to call him that but Dean.

Dean turned his head, looking down the length of Sam's body, and Sam followed his gaze to where their joined hands disappeared beneath the thin layer of material. Where their joined hands were _beginning to move_ _beneath the thin layer of material_. Sam's grip was all too familiar, and yet it wasn't with the added weight of Dean's hand. His cock was hotter, harder, and Sam knew it was because Dean was watching him.

Dean was watching him pleasure himself.

Dean was watching him pleasure himself, knowing he was doing it while he thought of Dean.

"That's right, baby," Dean coaxed.

And Sam was _gone_.

 

~~~~~~~~~~ §§§§§§ ~~~~~~~~~~

 

He'd had dreams like this, but he had always awakened to an empty bed. He would lie in that hazy space between sleep and waking, and he would think that this time it would be different. This time, when he opened his eyes, he would see Dean staring back at him, sleep-messed and sex-mussed, that shit-eating, cat-got-the-canary grin so firmly in place Sam would want to smack him. Or kiss him. Probably both.

But, it was never different. _Ever._

Until now.

Last night hadn't been a dream, and this time his bed wasn't empty. There was the weight of a thick, sleep-heavy arm resting across his chest and the press of a long, warm body running down the full length of his side. It was a familiar body, one whose sound and feel and…yes, even smell, he knew all too well.

Waking with Dean plastered to his side smelling of booze, sweat, and sex was nothing new after all. Life had made them pragmatic when it came to sleeping arrangements; they couldn't always afford two beds, or heat, or a roof over their heads, for that matter. So, although it was rare, it _did_ happen. Waking with Dean plastered to his side smelling of booze, sweat, sex, _and Sam,_ however… That was something that just didn't happen.

Sam opened his eyes. It was still early. He couldn't see the clock on the nightstand without moving—something he wasn't ready to do for a couple of reasons—but he'd spent enough time in motel rooms in his life to acquire a certain knack for gaging these things. There was a single spear of dull light peeking between where the curtains split, but the sounds outside were still night-quiet.

They were between hunts at the moment, and not because one of them was sick or injured as was usually the case. They'd walked away from their last hunt relatively unscathed, which was a rare occurrence lately, and nothing had pinged their radar yet. Normally, Sam would have welcomed the break.

Right now, however, he would have rather had a case to focus his thoughts on than what was zinging through his brain.

Dean and he had had…okay, it wasn't sex, exactly. They were both still fully clothed from the waist down; Dean still had is shirt on, for crying out loud. But they'd kissed and they'd touched…well, Sam had touched while Dean had watched, his hand riding the back of Sam's the whole time, their fingers threaded together.

_Show me what else you like._

Learning what Sam liked, how he liked to be touched: firm, hard grip, slow at first, then moving quicker, making his fist into a tight, hot channel that swallowed his tip to the palm with each stroke.

And, now Dean _knew_.

Just thinking about it had Sam growing hard. He shifted his hips, his breath starting to quicken, and Dean stirred beside him.

Sam froze on his inhale. He didn't even dare let it back out. Maybe if he stayed still enough, Dean would stay asleep just a little while longer. That was all Sam needed: a few minutes to get his brain out of his come-dried pants so he could have an intelligent conversation about… _this._

They _did_ need to talk about this after all. Didn't they? Of course they did. Something like this was a game changer. They'd lived their whole lives on the fringes of society, but this was a whole new level of _outer_ fringes. What would it mean for them? How would it change things between them? _Would_ it change things? How could it not?

Contrary to what Dean might think about him, Sam wasn't looking for a sweet-talk, hearts-and-flowers relationship, marriage and the white picket fence and all that. Maybe once, but not anymore. He just wanted Dean, _all_ of him—not just the parts Dean only ever showed Sam, but also the parts Dean _never_ showed him.

But, what if that wasn't what Dean wanted? What if last night had just been a combination of a little too much alcohol and not enough scratch to the itch that had sent Dean out in the first place? What if last night had been a one-time thing? How did they go back to normal—even normal for _them_ —after that?

Dean stirred again, his groan muffled by how he had his face mashed into the pillow. His arm slid down Sam's torso until the heel of his hand was almost over Sam's groin.

Apparently, Sam's traitorous cock didn't care one bit about the small freak-out building in Sam's chest. It twitched in interest, the tip just brushing the side of Dean's wrist. Dean's arm pushed back, his fingers curling around Sam's hipbone.

Sam made a most undignified sound and tore out of the bed.

If his intent had been _not_ to wake Dean, he'd failed miserably. He'd taken the top sheet with him, tangled as it was around his legs, and he'd nearly landed in a heap on the floor. Only the close proximity of the wall to the bed had saved him, catching the bulk of his weight hard enough to bounce the cheap landscape in the lacquered frame right off its hook. It hit the high-pile carpet with a soft thud.

"W' the hell?" Dean mumbled. He lifted his head from the pillow with another groan and looked at the spot in the bed beside him that Sam had just occupied. Finding it empty, he pushed himself up onto his elbow and looked over his shoulder. "Sam?"

There was a note of urgency in his voice, that same tone of underlying panic that tinged his voice whenever he said Sam's name lately. Not that Sam could blame him. Sam's visions were getting worse. Dean could wave them off and act as nonchalant as he wanted, but Sam knew Dean was as freaked out about them as he was. That alarm was there in his face too, until he finally found Sam. Then it seemed to worsen. He squinted in the dim morning light. "You okay?"

 _Was_ he okay?

"Uh—" He didn't know what he was at the moment. He was pretty sure _okay_ wasn't it. For one fleeting second, he actually _wished_ he could say he'd had another vision so he could avoid what was sure to be an awkward and maybe…probably…definitely terrible discussion.

"Sammy? What's goin' on?"

"Leg cramp," he blurted out stupidly.

Dean pointedly looked down at Sam's legs—neither of which, Sam realized too late, he was favoring—then back up at Sam, and his brow did that thing it usually did seconds before he called BS on the lie still echoing in the room. He didn't call him on it though. He simply flopped over onto his back with a weighted sigh and threw one arm over his eyes.

Sam stood there, frozen, and just watched Dean's chest rise and fall beneath his disheveled t-shirt. He could see the tension in Dean's body, the way the hand resting on his stomach and the one by his head curled into loose fists, and how the muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

Should he say something, or should he just tuck out quietly? His brain seemed to get as far as 'Dean, I…' before it stalled to a white-noised halt, and it didn't help that part of him just wanted to crawl back into that bed, shove both hands up under that damn t-shirt, and do all the things to his brother that he didn't get to do last night.

Because Dean had stopped him.

The realization pushed the breath out of him like an elbow to the gut. Dean had stopped Sam, from touching him back, from reciprocating the best damn orgasm Sam had had in a long time—the best because Dean had been a participant instead of just the cause. Because Dean had wanted him, too.

But, had he really? "I'm good, Sammy," Dean had said, once again taking Sam's hand as he'd reached for Dean. He'd stopped him, and Sam had been too sated to even notice it.

"You sure you're okay?" Dean asked suddenly. His arm slid off his face to curl on the pillow above his head, and he looked at Sam down the length of the bed.

No, Sam wasn't okay. "Yeah," he said anyway, kicking his legs free of the sheet pooled around his feet and pointing toward the bathroom. "I'm just…Uhm…"

"Sam?" Dean sat up in the bed.

"…gonna shower," Sam finished in a rush.

He was halfway to the bathroom door when Dean swore.

"Last night…" Dean said then, and Sam's gait faltered on the grungy carpet. He glanced over his shoulder but didn't— _couldn't_ meet Dean's eyes. "I know I was a little drunk, but… Sammy, did I…?"

Wait? Did Dean not even remember what happened? He'd said at the time that he wasn't that drunk, but what if he…?

Sam risked meeting Dean's gaze. At the look of concern building in his brother's eyes, his heart sunk. Dean didn't remember—Sam was sure of it—and he hated himself a little more for grabbing that lifeline. Maybe it was better this way. "No, Dean," he answered, hoping his voice sounded casual, despite the invisible fist squeezing his throat, "nothing happened."

He didn't wait to see Dean's reaction, just turned back toward the bathroom and the safety of a door he could put between them. Not that a slab of luan was going to stop Dean if he really wanted to get to him. It was symbolic at most, as hollow as the door itself.

" _Nothing_."

It wasn't the word that stopped Sam in his tracks. It was the way Dean said it. Cold and unaffected, which for Dean usually meant the exact opposite. There was the sound of movement behind him, and Sam turned to find Dean throwing his legs over the opposite side of the bed, his back to Sam. He didn't stand, though, just dropped his elbows on his thighs and hung his head.

"Nothing?" he repeated into his lap. "Way t'go, Dean."

And Sam knew.

"You _do_ remember," he said. His hand clenched the doorknob so tightly it creaked.

Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "What? That I apparently… might have… _Sonuvabitch_."

That last, he said so softly Sam almost didn't catch it. He was too fixated on what Dean had said right before it, or more specifically, at the self-loathing Sam could hear in his voice. What the hell did Dean think actually happened? No, wait. What the hell did Dean think Sam was _implying_ actually happened?

"No, Dean, you didn't—" Sam peeled his hand off the doorknob and crossed the room, sitting down on the still-made bed across from his brother. He mirrored Dean's posture: leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "It was my fault, all right?"

"Your fault? How is me groping you in your sleep _your fault_?" Dean shot back angrily.

Sam flinched. He never meant for Dean to think _that_. "What? No! You didn't! It wasn't like that, Dean. I swear."

"Then how was it, Sam? Huh?" Dean suddenly surged to his feet and put some distance between them, his back rigid and his hands balled into tight fists at his side. "'Cause, you _say_ nothing happened, but I know—"

"Something did happen, but it was my fault," Sam admitted. "You were drunk and you didn't…I mean, you couldn't possibly know, and—I just…I should've stopped you and I didn't, okay?"

"Why?"

"What?"

Dean spun around and folded his arms in front of his chest. " _Why didn't you stop me?_ " He said each word slowly, as though talking to a child—one who wasn't too terribly bright, at that. "If you thought I was so drunk I didn't know who I was groping, why didn't you tell me to stop?"

For a second, Sam couldn't answer. It was as if he were under an outside influence, a compulsion so strong he couldn't break it, except he knew perfectly well it was all him. He'd been keeping it behind his teeth for so long, trying desperately to keep Dean from ever seeing it, that he didn't know how make the words come now.

Some of that must have shown on Sam's face because Dean's expression softened slightly. "Sam?" It was his big brother, _C'mon, man, talk to me_ tone that always broke through Sam's resistance, gentle and safe and maybe a little hurt that Sam might be keeping something from him.

And, just like always, it worked. "Because I wanted it."

"You wanted _it_?" Dean repeated incredulously. "Well, hell, Sam. If you were so desperate for a little action, I'm sure we could'a—"

Sam was on his feet and in front of Dean before he realized he'd even moved. "I wanted _YOU_! Okay?" The words burst out of him, equal parts angry that Dean would ever think him so base, and relieved to finally have it out in the open. "Is that what you wanna hear? Fine. I'll say it, because what the hell, right? You already think I'm a freak. I wanted you, Dean. I wanted _you_!"

The words were still echoing in the room, Sam's chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He was right in Dean's personal space, so close he could have leaned right in and kissed him without having to take a single step. For his part, Dean didn't seem all that perturbed by Sam's proximity. Or by the fact that Sam's hands were fisted in the front of his t-shirt.

"How long?" Dean demanded.

The question was jarring; it made no sense. "What?"

"For how long, Sam? We talkin' two weeks, two months?"

"No," he evaded. He released Dean's shirt and turned his back on him.

" _Longer_?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, yet another avoidance.

"How much longer?"

Sam sat back down on the side of the bed and dropped his face into his hands. God, he'd made such a mess of this.

"Sam?"

"Before Stanford," Sam confessed into his palms.

"What?"

He dropped his hands to his sides, his fingers clutching the wrinkled top sheet. "Since before I left for Stanford." He snorted bitterly. "Turns out your brother's an even bigger freak than you thought."

"Stop saying that."

"What, that I'm a freak? What would you call it? I mean, this isn't exactly normal, Dean. This isn't even on the same plane of existence with normal."

"And you couldn't tell me?" There was that same hurt tone.

" _Tell you_?" Sam looked up at him. "No, I couldn't tell you. I couldn't tell anyone. Half the time I was so afraid you were gonna figure it out and hate me for it. That you'd think I was… sick or disgusting. And, god, if Dad had found out…" Just thinking about it made his body break out in a cold sweat. "So I ran."

"To Stanford."

Sam gave him a sheepish shrug. "It could have been anywhere. Stanford offered."

"And Jessica?" Dean asked.

There was no accusation in his voice, but Sam still bristled. "I loved her!"

"I know you did, Sam. That's not what I meant."

Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinking the sting from his eyes. "I was never going to have what I wanted, and she didn't compete, you know?" It sounded awful, saying that out loud, but he was used to feeling like he'd never deserved her. "It was normal and safe, and after a while… I thought it went away, this wanting something I shouldn't have wanted anyway. I was wrong."

Dean was silent, though what exactly Sam expected him to say, he didn't have a clue. His face was turned in profile, gazing off at some indeterminate spot or stain on the carpet while he chewed on the inside of his cheek. Sam could tell by the way his lips pursed and by the hollow that formed in the side of his face.

"Dean, I—"

But, Dean shook his head. "All this friggin' time," he uttered suddenly. It didn't seem as if he was speaking to Sam, not at first, but then he looked right at him. "All this time, I thought you left because of me."

Sam blinked. He played the words over in his mind, but they didn't make any sense. "Because of _you_? Why would you think that?"

Dean didn't answer, just continued to look at him. Was he expecting Sam to figure it out? If so, they were in for a long, awkward morning. Sam knew what it _sounded_ like Dean was saying, but that was only Sam hearing what he wanted to hear. No way was Dean actually saying _that_. He couldn't possibly…

The silence stretched, however, and each second that ticked by chipped away at the moorings of Sam's certainty. He couldn't possibly mean… could he?

"C'mon, Sam," Dean said suddenly, throwing his hands up in the air in disgust. "You really gonna make me spell this out for you? And while I'm standin' here in my damn underwear?"

He looked down at himself as if he'd only just noticed that he was wearing his black boxer briefs and a t-shirt, and nothing else, something that Sam had been trying _not_ to notice since he'd rolled out of the bed. "You say you didn't stop me because you wanted it," Dean said, speaking in that same tone of voice he used with civilians when he though they were being willfully blind to the obvious, "but the key detail you seem to be missing here is that _I started it!"_

Sam shook his head, stubbornly. He stood and pushed himself past Dean. "You were drunk. You didn't know…"

"What I was doing?" Dean grabbed Sam's arm to stop him. "What kind of drunk do you think I am?"

"You didn't know it was _me!_ " Even as the words were leaving his mouth, though, he was starting to doubt them. Maybe that was why he didn’t try to pull out of Dean's hold, why he just stood there staring at Dean's hand where it curled around his arm, his grip far too gentle for the tension in those wide, strong fingers.

"Of course, I knew it was you, Sam." Dean said. "Though, I'm still not sure what you were doing in my bed." That last was said teasingly, but the levity sounded forced to Sam's trained ear.

Banter had always been Dean's exchange of choice, as though he needed the parried _Jerk!_ for every _Bitch!_ he threw at Sam as much as he needed an affronted eye-roll for every off-color or inappropriate remark. It was such a part of the normal cadence of Dean's speech; it was all the more discordant in those times when Dean let his vulnerability show.

Still he'd tried and Sam did his best to hold up his end of the deal, though his heart really wasn't in it. "There are two beds in the room, Dean," he replied, lamely. "You just assumed the one I was in was yours."

"And, yet I stayed there, didn't I." Sam opened his mouth and Dean's eyes narrowed. "So help me, if you say it's because I was drunk one more time…"

Sam snapped his mouth closed on that very response. It was as if it was on a loop in his brain stomping out any other reason that tried to surface. Maybe if he said it enough times, that little ember of hope in Sam's heart would finally snuff out. Because—

"It's not like you want—"

He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He really hadn't. Dean's hand tightened on Sam's arm, and he pulled him closer, so close that when Sam looked up at him he could see every faded freckle across the bridge of Dean's nose—as though he hadn't memorized each and every one. There was real anger in Dean's eyes, the kind that usually warned of physical violence seconds before he was throwing the first punch.

" _I want?_ " Dean hissed, mere inches from Sam's face. "You really don't know the first thing about what _I want_ , do you? You, with that great, big, thinky brain? Hell, you get the _shining_ and you _still_ don't know, do you?"

Sam's back hit the wall behind him. He hadn't even realized that Dean had been moving him, pushing him back, step by step. Dean pinned him to the wall, moving right in on him and leaving a space between them so small the slightest inhale would have eliminated it. Assuming Sam could have drawn in a single breath if he'd tried; it felt like he'd swallowed a golf ball.

"You need me to say it, Sam? Fine, I'll say it. Because _what the hell, right_?" Dean parroted Sam's words back at him with a cold grin. It faded as quickly as it appeared, though, his gaze sweeping across Sam's face with an almost fatalistic gleam. "I stayed in that bed, last night, because _I wanted_ _you_!"

 _Dean wanted him?_ Sam shook his head in denial. He had convinced himself he'd never hear those words, but now that Dean was saying them, he was afraid to believe them. Spots formed before Sam's eyes, and it was only then that he realized he was still holding his breath. He let it out sharply, as Dean started to blur in front of him.

"I've been gutting myself for _years_ over how much I've wanted you!" Dean told him, giving him a little shake for emphasis.

"Years?"

"And, in all that time, I never had a single clue you felt the same way. Not one!"

It sounded like an accusation, and maybe rightly so. He'd never seen it; he'd never had an inkling that he wasn't all alone in this. Should he have? "I'm sorry," he uttered.

But Dean shook his head. "Then, all of a sudden…  I've been listening to you say my name in your sleep for weeks now. For _weeks!_ And well… let's just say, you didn't exactly sound like you weren't enjoying yourself."

"Oh, God," Sam cringed.

"There were a few of those in there, too." He gave Sam a smug grin, waggling his brows for added affect, and Sam seriously thought about smacking him.

"Did I read it all wrong, Sammy?" Dean asked him, and suddenly, there was nothing of the typical masks and guards in his expression.

And just like that, Sam wanted to smack himself. He shook his head.

"Then, what's going on? You say you want this, and last night you sure seemed like you did, but now you're freakin' out on me."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry. Just…"

He released Sam's arms and turned his back on him, took only a few steps and then stopped, running both hands through his sleep-tousled hair, leaving it standing up in clumps. He dropped his hands to his sides with a frustrated sigh, then turned back around, his mouth open to speak.

Sam interrupted him. "I never thought you might… You never said anything."

"Why do you think?" Dean asked. "You're my little brother. I'm supposed to be looking out for you. I'm not supposed to be thinking about what you might look like with your hand around your dick!"

Sam made a face. "That's classy, Dean," he groused.

Dean shrugged. "It was… kind'a hot, too, actually."

For one fleeting second, the image popped into his head: Dean's eyes fixated on the movement of their joined hands on Sam's cock, his pupils blown wide with desire. Sam had watched him until the moment he'd closed his eyes, too caught up in the wave of pleasure building within him to keep them open any longer. He knew Dean had watched him fall apart—he'd told him so—but he hadn't let himself stop to think about how. Until now. "Wait. Is that why you…?"

Heat flared in Sam's face and he shook his head. No! He wasn't ready to have _that_ conversation—might never be, but certainly not now when he was feeling so uncertain about far more important things.

 _I've been gutting myself for_ years _over how much I've wanted you!_

_All this time, I thought you left because of me._

Dean hadn't said specifically how many years, but Sam had always been really good at extrapolating from random data sets. And there had been nothing random about those two comments.

"We lost so much time," he said. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, and let his head thump back against the wall. Tears welled, and he closed his eyes and let them trace down his cheeks. "If we'd said something…"

"Nothing would have changed, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam opened his eyes to find Dean squatting in front of him. "What do you mean?"

Dean sighed. "Be honest, Sam," he said gently. "If I'd told you how I felt, would you have stayed?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say it so badly, but it would have been a lie. He shook his head. It wasn't just the fear that his impure thoughts would be discovered that had sent him out the door that night. "If I'd told _you_ ," he said instead, "would you have gone with me?"

"Leave hunting?" Dean answered. Unsaid was that he'd have been leaving their dad, too. And that was something Dean would never have done voluntarily. He shook his head.

Dean was right. Nothing would have changed. If anything, it would have only made it worse for them both. Sam let his head fall back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the speckled ceiling above the bed. "Where does this leave us then?"

"I guess that depends, Sam."

"On?"

Dean cupped Sam's face and ran his thumb across his cheekbone, smearing the wetness gathered there. "I already told you what I want. What do you want?"

Sam met Dean's eyes. "You."

Dean pushed himself to his feet. "Alright, then." He reached out his hand to Sam, who hesitated then let Dean pull him to his feet.

"Just like that?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't have to be complicated, Sam." He wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's neck and gave it a light squeeze. "We'll figure it out."

It was a statement, but he said it like a question, ducking down so he could meet Sam's eyes even though Sam was taller. Sam found himself nodding, and meaning it.

"Besides," Dean continued, a smirk pulling one corner of his mouth, "it's not like half the people we run across don’t already think we're bangin' each other, right?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~ §  _fini_ § ~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
